


Fixed Perspective

by Destina



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Early Work, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-06-01
Updated: 2001-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe begins to understand that there is a difference between Watching and seeing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixed Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Written sometime around 2001. Posted to AO3 June 2015.

As with all things absurd, the events that changed Joe's perspective forever took place on a perfectly ordinary night. One of those nights where the music is mellow, where the patrons pay up and tip well, where the stories of lives gone awry were colorful- not too maudlin, not too over-the-top, but just right.

It was the sort of night on which Joe should have expected some sort of insanity. All the horrors of the world come flying straight out of the sun; he'd learned in 'Nam that shit always happens when you're warm, contented and blind as a bat.

The evening unfolded into complete normality at the same measured pace as all other nights. Regulars drifted in and out on clouds of smoke and perfume, and the endless cycle of empty glasses and wet napkins began as night fell over the city.

In the midst of the mundane chaos, a familiar customer wandered in, parked on a barstool and ordered a beer -- Moosehead, in the bottle. It took a moment for Joe to notice Methos camped out at his bar rail and when he did, Methos was into his second beer, and the assistant bartender was whisking away the evidence of the first.

"Methos! Good to see you." Joe felt the grin come easy to him. In his domain, there was nothing to interfere with a good time and a little conversation of the innocuous type.

"Hi Joe. How's it going?" Methos swiveled on the stool, rested his elbows on the bar and smiled.

"Better than ever, my friend. Better than ever. What brings you here?"

"Several things, actually. I had business in Los Angeles and thought I'd swing through on my way back to Paris."

Joe's grin broadened by a mile and he didn't try to hide his amusement. "Quite the little side trip, there, wouldn't you say?"

"Maybe." Methos conceded the point with a small smile. "What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?"

"Depends. You driving?"

"No, Joe. I'm a responsible senior citizen. I left my car in the motel parking lot and took a cab over here so I could get stinking drunk with impunity."

"Since you put it that way..." Joe uncapped another bottle. "Not sponging off Mac this trip?"

"Very funny. He wasn't home when I went by. I left a message. I would imagine he'll meet me here."

"He'll get here just in time to pick your sorry ass up off the floor." Joe grabbed for a bar towel. "How long you staying?"

"That depends," Methos said softly, swirling the contents of the bottle with a slow circular motion.

"Join me in a drink?"

"I've got a business to run, buddy. It's early yet. Talk to me near closing."

Methos nodded and took a long swallow of the golden liquid. After a moment, he asked, "How's he taking it, Joe?"

"Better than I'd expected." No need to decipher the shorthand of inquiry; there was only one thing the question could refer to. "But he doesn't talk about it. At least, not to me. Connor was the only family he could ever really rely on. It has to be hard as hell. To kill your last living relative..."

"He's an expert at loss. We all are."

"This is different. You said so yourself not two months ago in London."

"So I did." Methos paused for a moment, then said, "They weren't really related, you know. Couldn't have been. Duncan was a foundling."

"You're telling me this? Like I don't know? Like it matters a damn?" Joe wadded up the bar towel and pitched it directly into Methos' face. "You're just a paragon of sensitivity, you know that?"

"Just musing aloud, Joe." Methos pitched the towel back.

"Well, don't."

Methos hunched over the bar, summoning Joe into his circle of fact-finding. "Have you heard anything about the Sanctuary Group?"

"Not a damned thing. I've had my ear to the ground for weeks now, but there's nothing. They've gone into hiding, the bastards."

"I admire their objectives, you know." Methos leaned just a bit closer, and Joe strained to hear his words. "Clever boys. Stop the world from ending by manipulating the rules. Who's to say it isn't a worthy ambition?"

"We don't know what will happen when it's over. You can't just play around with something this important." Joe glanced at the door; MacLeod was heading in, dark eyes making a circuit around the crowded room. "Look who's here."

Those dark eyes settled on Methos, whose presence drew Duncan straight into the bar like a tether line. Methos didn't bother to turn around. "About time you showed up," he said, taking a long swallow of beer. The bottle didn't quite hide his smirk.

"Don't start with me," Duncan said, as he perched on a stool next to Methos. "Since you didn't bother to tell me you were coming to town. How's it going, Joe?"

"Depends on whether or not your buddy here is planning on running a tab," he answered, nodding at Methos. "We could turn a profit in one night."

"Well, aren't you just the clever one with your little jokes tonight?" Methos drained the bottle and set it down, and finally turned in Duncan's direction. "You're looking well."

"Nice of you to notice," Duncan said, and sarcasm colored the words, but the tone didn't match the look in his eyes. Joe frowned slightly and tried to decipher the strange surge of intuition he'd just experienced. Something was...odd.

He poured a small glass of scotch and set it in front of Duncan. "On the house."

"Thanks." Duncan picked up the glass, took a sip, and moved his arm to return it to the bar. Only the glass seemed to have a will of its own, and the contents went far afield, and somehow ended up splattered all over Methos' shirt.

Methos glared at Duncan and snatched up the bar towel.

Duncan shrugged and said, "Sorry." There was no contrition in the apology whatsoever, and Joe watched with amazement as Duncan took the towel away from Methos and scrubbed at the stain. "This is going to set. Better rinse it out."

"Never mind. I have a clean shirt at the motel." Methos rose and shoved away Duncan's hand.

"Fine," Duncan said, and threw the towel back on the bar. He met Methos' eyes, and Joe's suspicion suddenly took a giant leap forward. Something was definitely off.

Methos sighed. "Club soda, Joe?"

"Coming right up." He produced the requested item and began to hand it to Methos, but the ancient Immortal gestured at Duncan.

"Give it to him. He caused the problem, he can help clean it up." Methos picked up the towel again and glared at Duncan. "Well? Make yourself useful."

Duncan obediently took up the club soda and followed Methos into the hallway leading to the restrooms, near the back entrance.

Joe could feel the frown gathering as he stared at the empty bar stools. Without a doubt, that had been a show of some sort. An excuse to leave. But it made no sense at all, really, since they could have met elsewhere and avoided the display altogether.

For the next half an hour, he cleaned up the bar and dispensed drinks like a good bar owner should. But as time dragged on and no Immortals emerged from the restroom, he eventually came to the conclusion that they were either outside in the process of fighting it out to the death, or were in the bathroom having a war of words. Either way, it was annoying, and not his problem.

With a sigh, he gathered up a bag of trash from under the bar and set out through the small kitchen, to the service doors and the trash bin out back.

It would prove to be a fateful decision.

Later, Joe would reflect that he hadn't *meant* to see it. In fact, if the parties in question had tried to tell him, he might have asked them not to give him the details, for his sake as much as theirs. For once, the Watcher wasn't really watching. He was just taking out trash, dumping bottles behind the bar he'd founded as a haven from the outside world. But the voice of Duncan MacLeod was a lure; it raised his Watcher antennae like a radar ping, sending him into scout-mode, and he followed the low, lilting cadences right into a miniature disaster.

"We should go back inside. Joe is probably wondering what happened to us." Duncan spoke softly and with regret.

"We've been gone long enough that he might think we've left. It's safer out here."

"In public?" Duncan snorted. "It's dark, but it's not private."

"Does that matter?" The tone of Methos' voice was rich with promise, dark with unspoken offers, and the hair on the back of Joe's neck rose. He knew that tone. He'd used it himself on a considerable number of conquests.

There was silence, and he took his opportunity to catch his balance at the corner of the building and peer down into the alley, squinting until he made out the forms of the two men in the shadows.

Methos was braced against the wall, coat open, shirt open, head tipped back, eyes closed. And Duncan was...

Duncan was kissing Methos.

No. He was worshipping him with his mouth, with kisses that covered every exposed inch of skin on Methos' neck, his chest. Methos' hands tangled in Duncan's hair as Duncan found an exposed nipple and gave it his full attention; his tongue flicked across the raised flesh, circling it.

"Christ!" Methos yanked Duncan's head up, hissing as cool air touched the place where that warm mouth had been, and captured Duncan's mouth with his own. It was a fight for dominance, each grappling for possession of each other, and Joe could almost feel the heat pouring off of them as he watched in stunned fascination.

"Oh, you want this, don't you," Duncan said, and the tone was one Joe had never heard him use. It was almost frightening in its intensity, vibrating with a kind of raw power only a man completely sure of his territory would use.

"Well, what the hell do you think?" Methos' answer held an edge of impatience as he quite deliberately curled his fingers around Duncan's erection. "You're not going to make it back to the loft this way, and besides, I don't want to wait that long." His hand traveled down the front of Duncan's shirt, tearing it open, and Duncan's mouth closed over his again. They dueled that way for a moment, until suddenly it was Methos' fly that was open, his cock that was exposed to the night, and Duncan was on his knees, taking the shaft into his mouth, going down on Methos like it was something he'd been doing all his life.

Which as far as Joe knew, he hadn't. Not to say this was the first time Duncan had partnered up with a man, but there was nothing of any consequence in the records, which were meticulous.

The picture engraved itself on Joe's mind with immense clarity and he found he could not look away. He was riveted by the expression on Methos' face, the rapturous acceptance of bliss he saw there, manifested in the tilted head, the hard swallow as soft sounds escaped his open lips.

The tableau changed quickly as Duncan stood, looking at Methos for a long moment before receiving a quick nod, something unspoken agreed between them. Methos' coat was stripped away and deposited in the street; he was turned, pushed against the wall, and Duncan opened his own fly, freeing his erection. They rubbed against one another like two cats in heat; Methos pushed away from the wall, gaining leverage and friction until Duncan restrained him, lightly, mercilessly.

"I haven't fucked in an alley since medieval London. And it's not a lot cleaner this time around." Methos chuckled against the dry brick of the building, and the laugh quickly turned to a low moan as his body was pressed against the building, and Duncan covered him, holding his wrists over their heads with a loose, powerful grip.

Joe averted his eyes, but not before he saw the first thrust, heard the raw, needy gasp Methos made as he was penetrated. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, knowing he would never, never get that image out of his mind, Duncan MacLeod fucking the oldest living Immortal senseless in a dark alley behind a bar, and both of them clearly loving it.

And even with his eyes closed, he couldn't avoid it. He could hear everything, every scrape of fabric on brick, every filthy phrase Duncan murmured in a half-whisper meant for Methos' ears, the rough, guttural urgings Methos uttered in a voice broken by passion. Every nuance was imbedded in his memory.

He tried to turn his thoughts in the direction of seeking clues, of finding the moment it had happened, when Methos and MacLeod had become lovers. His mind raced, pinpointing the holes in the fabric of what he had always understood. Selected moments suddenly popped out at him, clear and distinct.

There was the day Methos had explained why he turned over Jacob Galati to the Watchers. Nose buried in a drink, eyes infinitely sad, Methos had rambled. "One of them, or one of us. And the thing is, Joe, he's right." One long swallow of alcohol, and the rest came out in a rush. "I became a Watcher to preserve what I know, what I've seen. MacLeod can't understand what it's like, what it feels like to have your heart divided between a mortal cause you know is just, and saving someone you-" He stopped, jerked his head back as though the glass in his hand had burned him. Haunted eyes found Joe's above the rim of that glass. "I had to decide. Galati, or MacLeod."

"I made that choice, too, Methos. You're right. No contest." Joe had raised a glass to Methos and smiled. "Saving that stubborn bastard is a full-time job, and an under-appreciated one at that."

"Tell me about it," Methos snorted, and drained his drink.

It hadn't seemed significant at the time, but so many things had suddenly taken on a new context - so many things were suddenly different.

There was an occasion when the two of them sat in the crowded bar, hunched over a table, talking animatedly about things in tones so low no one near them would have picked up the threads of the conversation. Joe had glanced their direction every so often, and in hindsight, it was all there. Furtive touches - slender fingers to a blue silk sleeve, and the wrist beneath; fingertips connecting on the handle of a pitcher of beer; a hand clasped over a shoulder and lingering there as its owner walked by on his way to the bar. Eyes locked, and electricity arcing between them like sparks across a live wire. Body language - Methos' sprawl in his chair, his open posture, and Duncan leaning across the table almost as though he were about to pounce.

Later, when they'd moved to a booth, they sat together, on one side, and Methos' arm had lifted to rest on the back of the seat. Come to think of it, Joe could remember it shifting down, resting on MacLeod's shoulders instead.

He just hadn't...what had he been thinking? That they were growing close? That it was nice to see them enjoying each other's company, after Tessa and Alexa and so many others lost?

Well, that should have been a prime clue right there, shouldn't it?

A moan broke his reverie, a moan so close to a sob, so fraught with emotion, that he covered his eyes with one hand, as if to stop himself from doing what he knew, inevitably, he was going to do.

He peered around the corner once more and was treated to the sight of Duncan biting Methos' shoulder, hard, growling as he buried his face in the curve of Methos' neck, and Methos made one more gasping sound, and both were still.

Oh, good. Another image for posterity. Duncan and Methos, coming together in an alley, smashed up against the back wall of his bar.

He leaned his head against the rough brick for a moment, eyes closed, but certain images were cavorting behind his closed eyelids. A vaguely hysterical laugh bubbled up, and manifested as a grin, then a grimace. Joe swung around and pushed through the service doors and headed straight past the tables, the bar, eyes fixed on his office door...just a few more steps, and he could have some privacy to digest...

"Joe! So you *are* in residence tonight!"

He stopped, swiveled, smiled in a vague approximation of a sickly baby. "Well, well. Amanda."

With one of her trademark smiles, she threw an arm around his neck and landed a kiss on his cheek. "I was looking for Duncan and Methos. Have you seen them?"

Well, now, there was the question, wasn't it? Joe could not have spoken to save his life, but Amanda took one look at the expression on his face and her own changed to a one of alarm. "What is it?" she asked, taking him by the arm. "Has something happened?"

"Something. Happened. Well, that's one way to put it." Joe tossed a glance back over his shoulder, then nodded toward the door. "Let's go into my office."

"All right," Amanda said, clearly puzzled. She looked in the direction Joe had been looking, craning her neck to see any sign of spies or assassins, and trailed behind him into the small space.

Joe fidgeted in the doorway until she passed him and settled herself comfortably on his desk. She crossed her legs, adjusted her scarf, and prompted, "What's going on?"

With one hand, he pushed the door shut, then stood there mute. It took a moment beneath her expectant stare before he said, "Have you noticed anything...funny...about those two?"

"Funny?" Her eyebrows were climbing. "Not that I can recall. Maybe you could give me a definition of 'funny'. Just so I can be sure we're on the same page."

"I just..." He stopped, regrouped. "They were..."

Amanda leaned forward. "You're going to have to be just a little clearer."

"Dammit, Amanda, I'm trying to be tactful here!" It exploded out, and on the heels of his outburst came the rest of it. "I mean, we're talking about two men I respect! And they're..."

The eyebrow arched still higher.

"...sleeping together!"

"Well, of course they are," she said, and her face crinkled up in a deliciously amused feast of smiles. "This is *news* to you?"

Joe felt weak all over, and that feeling of half-hysterical laughter was back. He allowed her to guide him to a chair, and put him in it, and he heard her talking, words that were slowly starting to make sense.

"You're supposed to be a trained observer, for goodness' sake! I can't believe you haven't figured it out before this. It's only been perfectly obvious to...well, to me, anyway. Haven't you noticed the way they are always looking at each other?" She paused, drew a breath, and went on. "They're doing it with their eyes, at the very least." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And they flirt. The only person Duncan flirts with more is me!"

"This is too much," Joe muttered. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then looked up at Amanda, who was watching him, arms folded across her chest. "How long have you known?"

"I don't *know*. I mean, not in the official sense. But I think it's been going on for at least a couple of years, on and off. Since before Kronos came back into the picture."

"Back? Picture?" Snap, lock, and suddenly puzzle pieces were lining themselves up and sliding together seamlessly. "Oh, no. No, no. I am not going to think about...oh, no."

"I'm just trying to answer your question," Amanda said patiently, and there was a glowing hint of mischief in her eyes.

"Jesus Christ! What a hell of a thing."

"This shouldn't change anything, Joe." Amanda's shrewd tone brought him back to center. "You're an enlightened man of the world."

"It doesn't change a damned thing. Only I didn't...well, what the hell do you expect? I just didn't know. If they had *told* me, I would have been prepared."

"Prepared for what?"

"Never mind."

Whatever else Joe had been planning to say was interrupted by a brief knock at the door, and Methos stuck his head in. "Just wanted to invite - oh hello, Amanda, here you are."

"Darling. How are you?" Hug, kiss, and standard greeting followed, and Joe caught himself looking at Methos as they embraced, and wondering things he should never have had to think about. Like, for instance, how long it could take a 5,000 year old Immortal to find a soul mate, and how much it might matter, or not, if that soul mate was a stubborn Scotsman.

"We're off," Methos said to Joe. "Come to Mac's for a drink after closing. We have some news for you."

Joe looked at Amanda, who was studiously looking elsewhere, and then back at Methos. "Couldn't you just tell me now and save me the suspense?"

"Afraid not." Methos smiled at Amanda. "You ready?"

"Just give us a minute," she said.

"Everything all right?" Methos turned a questioning gaze on Joe.

"Just peachy. See you after closing."

"See you then." With a quick smile, Methos allowed himself to be dismissed, and closed the door behind him.

"They have news. Now just what do you suppose that could be?" Joe heaved a long-suffering sigh, and the tiny act of disgruntled self-pity made him smile at himself.

"If it's any consolation to you, I don't think either of them is the type to take curtain-shopping excursions, so no worries there." Joe looked up at Amanda, startled, and she burst into peals of laughter.

"You do have a knack for re-framing the situation." Joe reached out and clasped her hand with his own. "Thanks for the reality check."

"Thank me again later, over drinks at Duncan's."

"You're still going to be there?"

"Of course I am. I wouldn't miss this show for all the diamonds in the world. Well...that might be overstating things. Just a little. But this I have to see." She leaned over and kissed him on the temple, and was gone.

Joe sat motionless for a few minutes, thinking. Or rather, not thinking. A great deal of gray matter had been sacrificed to a bloody and horrible death over the past half an hour. And there were pictures swimming in his head, and questions, and the remnants of issues he'd disposed of long ago.

No mention in MacLeod's Chronicles about any male lovers. Now why should that surprise him so? It seemed unlikely that there had been a conspiracy to cover up personal details of the man. And it just didn't figure that he could have lived hundreds of years and only just connected to a man. Even a man like Methos, who had persuasive eyes, and magnetic intellect, and was a living paradox.

With a rattle of his shoulders, he shook off that thought and went to his computer to open the database. His personal password brought up his own Watcher journals in progress, with the most recent entries on Connor MacLeod's death at Duncan's hands. The journals were supposed to be about so much more than just battle and death. They were supposed to be about life - daily details. Lovers. Friends.

His fingers hesitated over the keys, and he began to type, slowly. Just a sentence of dry documentation. He read it over and dropped his hands into his lap. The words didn't seem to do the situation justice.

He'd nearly been executed for falsifying records before. He took time to remind himself of that.

After a moment, he highlighted the text, then deleted it all.

He turned off the computer and glanced at the clock. Only eight. Six hours to go before he would need to collect himself into a neat package and present a blank, receptive face, ready to take on new information. Or in this case, not so new anymore. This was going to be a big event, if his take on things was right - Duncan MacLeod, ready to tell all about his personal life.

If someone had said to him he'd be facing the prospect of being drawn into the periphery of a circle of two, with Duncan and Methos at the center...he'd have called them crazy.

But since it was really going to happen, there were a few little perks to be had. He could console himself with those. For instance, he wanted to watch the expressions on their faces when he told them he'd already figured it out. It would be worth the price of admission.

Worth the price, period.


End file.
